Possession
by a.lakewood
Summary: Dean attempts to take Sam’s mind off of Jess on Valentine’s Day by taking him on a hunt: exorcising the ghosts of a couple that apparently committed a double suicide - but Sam and Dean’s past comes back to haunt them when the hunt goes unexpectedly awry.


**Title**: Possession  
**Author**: alakewood  
**Warnings**: Spoiler for _Phantom Traveler_ and kind of one for _After School Special_. **Wincest**. Un-beta'd.  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Word Count**: ~2400  
**Summary**: Dean attempts to take Sam's mind off of Jess on Valentine's Day by taking him on a hunt: exorcising the ghosts of a couple that apparently committed a double suicide. However, part of Sam and Dean's past comes back to haunt them when the hunt goes unexpectedly awry.  
**Disclaimer**: As always, I own nothing.  
**A/N**: I got the idea for this fic this past fall, meshing together an episode of _The X-Files_ and one of _Buffy_ - but I was reminded of it when the episode _After School Special_ aired because, yeah, this follows along those same lines. Oh, and? Writing in present tense? Totally not easy. I just hope I got it right.

**oxoxo**

"What are we doing here, Dean?" Sam asks as his brother coasts to a stop outside of a crooked wrought-iron gate, the brick pillars the hinges are anchored to looking ready to crumble.

Dean turns the headlights off, the dark consuming everything and Sam's momentarily blind before his eyes adjust to the dim light of the half-moon. "We're on a hunt, Sammy."

"What happened to finding Dad?" Sam's annoyance is clearly evident in his voice – Dean doesn't need to see his face to know that he's wearing that expectant-slash-bitchy expression he's been prone to as of late.

"It's on the way," is Dean's reply, which isn't exactly a lie considering they're not sure if they're even headed in the right direction.

"Yeah."

Dean opens his door, frigid air quickly replacing the comfortable, couple-of-degrees-too-warm temperature inside the car. "You coming or not?" When Sam's response isn't immediate, Dean pushes out of the car and closes the door. He's digging through the trunk when he hears Sam's door open then close, then Sam's footsteps crunching on the snow. "There was a brochure at the gas station," he starts. "About local history and stuff. Touristy things – old houses, a farm, a museum."

Sam's hands are shoved deep in his pockets and he's rocking side-to-side on his feet in an effort to stay warm. "Is there a point to this?"

Dean adds a few more things to his bag and grabs his sawed off before he closes the trunk. He nods towards the gate and walks over, Sam behind him. "There were a couple of paragraphs about this house, uh, the Ashmore Estate," he says with a roll of his eyes. "Tragic love story. Double suicide. Blah blah blah. But, the place is apparently haunted." Dean starts to climb the gate, the lock too rusted to pick open, and it groans and shudders under his weight, but he keeps climbing, dropping down to the other side before continuing with his story. "Suicides happened nearly twenty years ago, place sat vacant for fifteen years, then, a few years ago, this couple buys the place, fixes it up and-"

"All this came from a brochure in a gas station?" Sam interrupts, swinging a leg over the top of the gate, then the other, but loses his footing on an ice-covered curve of wrought vine and crashes into Dean.

Dean's reflexes are faster than Sam remembers them, and Dean rights him before he realizes that he's falling. His hands hold longer and firmer than necessary, then he releases Sam and steps away. "Most of it, yeah. I actually came across the place last summer on the way to another job and it's a one-time-a-year kind of thing."

At first, the words don't make sense to Sam's ears, just random sounds that his brain can't quite comprehend because he's still reeling from the feel of Dean's grip. He forces the thoughts away and tries to focus on what Dean's saying.

"...guests reported hearing crying and seeing her ghost in the halls in the days leading up to Valentines Day. I guess that the couple staying in the room where the suicides happened said that it wouldn't warm up for anything – the radiator was throwing off heat, but it just didn't warm up the room, and there was a smell." His eyebrows arch as he looks at Sam pointedly. "Just a few hours into Valentines Day, an argument and screaming woke half the guests in the house, but it didn't last long. They were discovered later that morning. They _killed themselves_."

"Ghost possession?" Sam asks skeptically, following where Dean's leading him.

"What else could it be?"

The house is huge and dark, an ominous silhouette against the snow, crowded with volunteer walnut trees and overgrown oaks.

Dean hesitates at the front door and turns to Sam as he digs the car keys out of his front pocket. "Maybe I should do this one on my own."

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head. "Why? Don't think I'm capable?"

Dean shrugs. "Maybe. I just think it would be...safer...for you."

"Safer," Sam repeats.

"In PA, on that plane, all that stuff about your emotions making you a target for demon possession – I doubt it's just demons attracted to that kind of thing. After Jess-"

"We're not talking about this."

"Especially today, I'm sure that you're full of all sorts of...emotions. And it's okay, Sammy. I guess I just wanted to keep you busy today so you didn't have to think about it. About her, I mean."

"Well, aren't you thoughtful?"

"Sam."

"We're not talking about this," he says again, grabbing the lock-picking tools from Dean's hands and starting on the door. He's in in a matter of moments and strides into the house.

Dean sighs, takes point, and starts up the stairs.

At the top landing, Sam sweeps the beam of his flashlight down the length of the hall, seeing nothing, and waits for Dean to power on the EMF meter.

Dean approaches each door with the meter, down the hall and back – "They said it was the third floor," Dean says, running his hand over his hair. "I don't understand."

The hall grows impossibly colder and the beam of Sam's flashlight flickers and goes dark as the meter starts blipping until the sound is almost one continuous tone. His heart's in his throat as he reaches blindly for Dean. "Hey!"

Dean wheezes in the darkness; there's a _thud_ as he collapses against the wall. "Did you feel that?" He's not sure whether he should clutch his head or his stomach, settling on curling in on himself as he slides down to the floor. He takes a moment to calm down, attempts to slow his racing heartbeat. But as he finally controls his breathing, he feels the pain tearing at him again, like something trying to claw its way into his body. "Sam. Sam..._Sammy_. We gotta go. _Now_."

The edge of panic in Dean's voice makes his stomach knot with fear. Heavy, sinking, the dread washes over him. He kneels beside his brother, reaches his arm behind and around Dean to pull him up, but Dean cries out again, body shuddering before it goes slack. "_Dean!_"

A door somewhere behind him creaks open and there's the faint sound of a woman crying. Grief and fear permeate the air, like tangible things, then it's Sam that cries out, collapses against Dean.

He clutches at his brother, feels the pain of whatever had tried to force itself in ebb and an all-consuming fear that is not his own emerges.

Dean is first aware the weight of Sam's body pressing against his own – the way they're pressed together is awkward, but the feel is familiar. He allows his mind to recall that night years that feel like decades ago when Sam's body weighed heavy, delectably so, over him.

Sam's graduation from high school. John had been on a hunt, but Dean was there, hollering as Sam walked across the stage to receive his diploma. They'd gotten shit-faced drunk that night, stumbled home and collapsed onto Dean's bed side-by-side. And it just happened. Sam was on top of him, hands fisted in his shirt, mouth sliding over Dean's. And Dean didn't stop him.

Things changed after that night: Sam stopped talking to him, announced that he was going to Stanford. Then Sam was gone.

It's the memory of that feeling that stays with Dean as he breaks from his reverie. The emptiness is joined by intense want and need and _lust_, and it's the rage and anger that make him understand the experience in half a second. But he realizes that he's no longer in control of his body. "Sarah?" his voice asks.

Sam's head jerks up and their gazes meet. His eyes go wide. "Pete?" he sounds horrified.

A slow smile curls the corners of Dean's mouth. "It's been a while, baby."

Sam struggles to get away, "N-n-no," he stutters.

But Dean's hand closes over Sam's wrist and pulls him close. "You're not going anywhere."

"Please don't do this." Voice just above a whisper.

The backs of Dean's knuckles graze over Sam's cheek. "Why are you scared? You know I love you. You know I'll never hurt you. You know I'll never leave you." His grip tightens. "Not like you left me. _Not like you hurt me_."

"Pete. I didn't. I didn't mean to."

"You ran _away_. You _left_ me." His fingers uncurl and thread through Sam's hair, fitting to the shape of his skull.

"I'm sorry," pleading, "please, let me go."

Dean's shaking his head. "Not this time. You're never going to leave me again."

Sam sobs, wrenches his hand free, stumbles as he gains his feet. "You can't stop me!" He pushes through the slightly opened door, slams and locks it behind himself.

Dean stands, crosses to the door, raps on it quietly. "Sarah," he says, sing-song-like. "Sar-ah. Come on, baby, let me in."

Sam's leaning against the wall beside the door, crying, shaking his head. "No!"

"_Sarah!_" He pounds his fist on the door as he yells. "Open the door."

"No!" he cries again, pressing his hand to his mouth when the door rattles in its frame as Dean rams his shoulder into it. The wood cracks and splinters, shards flying into the room. There's nowhere for him to hide; all he can do is try to fight back as Dean lunges at him, forces him onto his back on the bed.

And, for the first time in this decades-long dance, Sam - _Sarah_ has the strength to fight back. Sam beats against Dean's chest, shoves him away. Dean roars in rage and follows as Sam flees from the room. He's faster, catches Sam at the end of the hall, but Sam swings him around and they both tumble down the stairs.

Sam moans, aware that he's now in control of his body and disentangles himself from his brother. But Dean's not moving. Sam's hands shake as his fingers slide over Dean's chest to his throat, feeling the thready pulse. He sighs, relieved. But his relief doesn't last long – the possessions happened so quickly, he wasn't sure if they'd have enough time to figure out what physical piece tied the ghosts to the house before they struck again. So he focuses on bringing Dean back into consciousness. "Dean." Pulls his brother into a sitting position, props him against the wall. "Hey, Dean. Come on. Please." Slaps at his face, gently at first, then harder as his desperation grows. "_Please_, Dean, please. I won't leave again." Sam wants to shake him, has a fistful of the collar of Dean's t-shirt, but Dean's head lifts and lolls back to his chest.

He grunts and coughs. "The _hell?_" he rasps, casting a sidelong glance at his brother.

"Are you okay?"

"I think so. Sam-"

"Don't. It's okay. We're okay. Let's just go."

"But we can't just leave them-"

"We can't do this, Dean. We're just not...ready for it."

Dean hears something else in Sam's words, a different meaning maybe, and pushes Sam away.

"Let it go. We can just torch the place."

Dean pauses as he levers himself away from the wall. "What?"

"I'm serious. Just burn it down." He stands and offers a hand to Dean, pulls him up and pulls him close, his heart thundering in his chest. "I just want to go."

Dean licks his lips, aware of their proximity and the heat between their bodies. "Okay," he agrees.

**oxo**

They had soaked the bed with gasoline and set it on fire. Watched the flames lick at the walls, catching and spreading.

From the car, they can see that the fire has spread, the whole third story lit up on the inside, smoke billowing from the windows as the glass is blown out. It's not long before it burns up through the roof and down through the floor. With any hope, the place'll be a smoldering pile of embers by daybreak.

"He killed her, then killed himself," Dean murmurs as they drive away.

Sam had come to the same conclusion. "So much for the tragic love story." He glances at Dean. "I'm sorry."

"For what? Nothing that happened back there was your fault."

Shakes his head. "Not tonight."

Dean immediately understands. "Sam. It was a long time ago."

"And there's obviously something still...here. I mean, what happened back there? It's because of what we're feeling."

"I know you don't – I mean. Sam. You were right to leave. We couldn't – we _can't_. I shouldn't've let you."

"I know that we _shouldn't_ but...God, Dean. After all these years...I still. I feel the same as I did on that night. I was just scared. But I don't know what's right and what's wrong anymore – at least not for us. All I know is what _feels_ right. And this? It doesn't feel wrong."

"We can't," Dean repeats. "I can't do this to you."

"You're not doing anything to me," he says in earnest.

"But once we find Dad. You'll..."

Sam shakes his head. "I won't, Dean. I'm not leaving." Trembling, he reaches his hand across the vast space between them, grasps Dean's. "I'm not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever."


End file.
